The Last Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a killer twist

by Nick Twist

  August spasmed as if electricity ran through her body. Floyd stood helpless, “What’s wrong? What’s happening to her?”

  111

  Fissure, Suffolk Country, Long Island

  “Is she alive?” Jack said, climbing down after Irene who’d already jumped her way down.

  “She is,” Irene said. “The man next to her is dead.”

  Jack made it down. He knelt next to Irene. “What the hell happened here?”

  “A car accident,” Irene said. “They fell in the fissure for some reason.”

  “Was she drunk?” Jack said, looking upward. “Could the plane crash have something to do with it? Maybe it flew too low before crashing and the driver panicked.”

  “It’s possible, but look,” Irene said, pointing at the track marks on the woman’s arm.

  “Shit,” Jack said. “She looks like she had a recent injection.” He pointed at a needle nearby.

  “I don’t know,” Irene said. “All I know is that we’re here for a reason.”

  “Reason?”

  “Think of it? We’re looking for a last girl and find this woman. We have to save her.”

  “Okay, baby. I’ll go get help.” Jack said, about to climb up again, but stopped at Irene’s tense grip. “What?”

  Irene pointed at Brooklyn’s stomach. “We don’t have time.”

  Jack squinted in the dark. “Is she pregnant?”

  The woman snapped, opening her eyes and crying in tears. “Get away from me!”

  “It’s all right. I can help,” Irene tried to touch her face.

  The woman spat back. “Get away from my child!”

  “It’s okay,” Irene said again. “I can help. Trust me, I can help.”

  “Help with what, Irene?” Jack said.

  “We have to deliver this baby, Jack,” Irene said. “We have to.”

  “I’m not sure, Irene. Let me get help.”

  “There is no time. This is destiny. I’m here to do this. We’re here to save lives. My father would have done the same.”

  Jack glanced back at the panicking woman. “I doubt we can save hers,” he remarked.

  “Even so,” Irene said, sliding out of her diving suit. “This woman has been brave enough to hang on, trying to bring this baby into the world. I can’t imagine how long she’s been struggling down here. How long has she battled death to stay alive? She knows she could die, but the baby will not,” she turns to face her. “Breathe, just breathe.”

  112

  Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

  Dixon was smoking a cigarette, happy this whole mess was over. He was finally going home.

  “So you’re going to see your children?” The pilot asked.

  “Nah,” Dixon took a drag. “I’ll go have a few beers with the boys.”

  The pilot frowned. “I thought this was all about going home and seeing the ones you loved.”

  “You’re too young to understand. I do love my children and want to see them. But they hate me. I never feel myself when I’m with them. Let’s go get that beer first. What about you?”

  “I will go see my children, sir.”

  “Sure you’re not in for a beer?”

  “Not now, sir.”

  “Don’t you want to celebrate this moment. We’ve just fooled the system,” he elbowed him playfully.

  “I’m happy with going home. You go have your beer.”

  “Shit!” Dixon growled suddenly. The chopper shook violently in midair. “What was that?”

  “Hang on, sir,” the pilot didn’t look like he was in control.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  The pilot pushed a few buttons then his face went pale.

  “What?” Dixon demanded, holding onto his seat’s edge.

  “I fucked up, sir,” the pilot said. “I guess I miss-calculated the coordinates.”

  “Co-ordinates?”

  “We’re flying right into some dangerous weather conditions. I should have taken another route—”

  There wasn’t much more to say. The chopper took a dip sideways. Dixon knew he wasn’t going to get that beer.

  113

  Mercy Medical Center, New York

  Dr. Hope called for help. The nurses held August by the arms to keep her from spasming.

  “What’s happening to her?” Floyd demanded.

  “She is in shock, I guess.” A nurse said.

  “How so when she can’t feel…” Floyd stopped his own words mid-sentence. He realized that August did feel. Did she hear their conversation? If so, why is she spasming now? “Dr. Hope, please answer me.”

  “I think…” she said while helping the nurses. “I think there is a chance we might lose her.”

  114

  The young girl and her friend are helping me give birth. There is no sign of Major Red nearby. I can’t feel anything. I can’t even crane my neck to look. If I should feel pain down there, I don’t. I’m numb to my body and senses. All I have is my mind. That powerful engine that kept me alive all this time.

  Though I can’t tell what was true and what wasn’t, I know I made up most of it, connecting stories to real life facts. My mind generated a story, accompanied by the honk of the car produced by Ryan’s hand bound to the wheel. He’d cut a piece of his shirt before dying and wrapped around his hand to guarantee it keeps pressing the horn. He knew me more than I knew myself. He knew I needed the anchor.

  “Hold on!” The girl tells me. I think her name is Irene. Such a brave soul. “Your baby is on the way.”

  I want to smile but have no facial strength to do it. Smiling with my eyes doesn’t work either, not with all the blood on my eyelids. I smile with my heart. With my mind. With that nameless power inside me that defies the rules of the world we live in.

  “We’re almost done,” Irene says. “But I need your help. Push with me.”

  Whether I’m pushing or not, I have no idea. I tell my mind to push and help my baby come out, but I have no evidence of it happening. It makes sense that I’d die after giving birth. I’m in such a low place. All I want is for my daughter to arrive.

  “That’s better!” Irene says.

  The memory of my escape when I was seventeen comes back to me. I can’t quite remember what happened to Major Red and his son. I only remember running with a jar in my hand, escaping this God forsaken, nameless town. The jar had Ashlyn’s ashes in it. I had picked them up from the Furnace.

  “Push!”

  All I want is my daughter to come into this world. All I want is that she gets a chance I never had. None of the girls in the Furnace had. This has to work. Ryan sacrificed himself for her. I did my best. And the universe sends those two people. This should work.

  My head feels so heavy, but then I hear the sweetest cry I’ve heard in my life.

  “There she is,” Irene greeted me. “You’ve made it!”

  Though I can’t feel physical happiness, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done it. I am ready to go. It’s been a struggle, this life. I think I’ve done good.

  Irene asks me an important question, “Do you have a name for your daughter?”

  115

  Mercy Medical Center, New York

  Floyd stood back, watching his wife wither away. All this talk about people coming back from comas wasn’t going to help now. If he just knew what pissed his wife off so much?

  “I need you to come closer,” Dr. Hope said.

  Floyd did, almost hypnotized.

  “Hold her hand,” Dr. Hope said. “This isn’t science by a stretch. As a doctor I have nothing to offer her. Hold her hand, Floyd.”

  Floyd sat next to August and did as he was told. August began to calm down. He looked back in awe at Dr. Hope. “But I was holding her hand before.”

  “I know,” Dr. Hope said. “I have no explanation, but look,” she pointed at August.

  Floyd saw a slight hint of a smile on August’s face. He wasn’t sure though. “Is she smiling?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dr
. Hope said. “But that’s not what I’m pointing at.”

  Floyd looked again. It wasn’t August’s face, but her forefinger. It was pointing somewhere.

  “She is pointing to the book,” Dr. Hope said.

  Floyd rushed to pick it up again, flipping frantically through the pages.

  “What are you looking for?” Dr. Hope said.

  “I have no idea,” Floyd said. “But there must be something. Maybe Ashlyn’s signature? Maybe a dedication.”

  “So?”

  Floyd found nothing. He looked disappointed. August began spasming again.

  “Check out this page,” Dr. Hope pointed to a dog-eared page. The only dog-eared page in the book.

  Floyd flipped to it, and opened it. There was a scribbling in blue ink at the top of the page.

  He read, “January, February, May, June, or August.”

  “What does it mean?” Dr. Hope asked.

  116

  Irene’s question reminds me of an old woman I met every year. A big fan of my work. Time and time again, I felt she was a mother to me. She couldn’t have children, and convinced me to have one of my own, explaining how lost she felt without experiencing motherhood. Next to Ryan, year after year, she’d managed to persuade me.

  “What do you want to call her?” Irene laughs with tears in her eyes, holding my daughter in her arms.

  It’s sad that I can’t hold my own daughter, now that none of my limbs are functioning. She is so beautiful. She brings hope to the darkness we’re in.

  “Do you want me to choose a name for you?” Irene says.

  “No,” I manage to say.

  I remember the woman, my biggest fan. Her name was August. I wanted to call my daughter Ashlyn, but she suggested I name her after her: August. She laughingly claimed girls named after months were the strongest of all. I said I can’t give my daughter the same name, as I intended to keep August in my life for a long time

  “That’s okay,” she’d said. “Still, you can choose: January, February, May, June, or August.” She winked.

  I remember now. I’d chosen one of them. The month I was going to give birth to her. The month with the most sunlight. Ryan had a necklace made with her name. I’ve been wearing it for seven months.

  I crane my neck as much as I can and take one last look at my daughter. Things come full circle. I tell Irene, “June.”

  Part IV

  Epilogue

  117

  Six Years Later

  The lecture is full of students, young authors and critics. I stand with the blackboard behind me, giving my seminar as a multiple New York Times bestselling author. Everyone is nice and acts as if listening. In truth they’re watching me, thinking about my black hair, piercings and tattoos under a neat business woman’s dress.

  They’re thinking about daddy’s girl.

  This isn’t my first lecture in the past six years. It’s almost the fiftieth. I’m used to the looks, to the skepticism, to the confusion in my audience’s eyes.

  Some never consider it a true story. They think it has to be part fiction. Life is neither so brutal nor do people overcome such adversities. What kind of fourteen-year-old girl submits to becoming a daddy’s girl to survive and eventually escape? Is it even possible to tolerate the shit I’ve been through?

  The FBI never backed up my story. They admitted the occurrences of some rape events, and evidence of the existence of a furnace in my small, nameless town—it’s not even on the map, as are a few towns in America. They’ve also found substantial evidence for baby killings. Still, they never admitted my story for lack of conclusive evidence.

  The only man working on it until this day is James Madison Floyd.

  Other members of the audience have another theory about me. It shows in their looks when they size me up from top to bottom. They’re not looking at me as Brooklyn Ward. They’re looking at the teenage bitch. Well, now the thirty-four-year-old bitch who sold her pussy’s story for a mere seven million dollars advance payment for her book—and movie rights in the making.

  I imagine they’re thinking about the multiple men raping me, wondering if I liked it. They’re not here to applause or listen. They’re here to judge. It makes them feel better about their lives.

  As for the few FBI members other than Floyd, they’re here looking for evidence. Though not admitting to the truth of my story, they’re investigating the disappearance of Manfred Schmidt and his son.

  The irony.

  In the end, I address those who have the capacity to believe, or hope—and certainly forgive. I tell them about the power of our brain, the power of imagination and to tell stories. Why we tell stories, and why we love them.

  I tell them about our unique weapon only humans possess: imagination. It may not be the best of weapons, as it can lead to delusion sometimes. But if done right, it can save our lives. Stories can save our lives. It’s said that it’s imagination that helped us humans to surpass Neanderthals, apes, and every other species.

  In the past few years, I had the honor of helping so many girls who had stories no one wanted to listen to, or even consider. Those are the ones who make my life the most meaningful.

  Of course, my number one reason for living is the girl climbing down the stairs of the lecture hall, running into my arms, calling me ‘Mommy!’

  118

  June West, my daughter, is a blondie. She has Ashlyn’s eyes and Ryan’s hair and smile. But deep inside she is a six-year-old tough cookie like her mother.

  “Where are we going now?” She asks, sitting in the passenger seat next to me.

  “We’re off to meet aunt Ashlyn,” I say, turning the wheel.

  “Ash!” She pronounces proudly. “I didn’t bring her gifts this time.”

  “She’ll be happy to hear from you. That’s what matters.”

  “She will be surprised to know I decided to become a pilot.”

  “Is that so?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “I saw this plane in the sky today, and remembered the story you told me about when I was born, mommy.”

  I had told her how I’m a hell of a good writer. How stories helped me survive. How my mind reeled, connecting unrelated incidents into semi-coherent plots, like when I saw the plane crash in the Atlantic, moments before Ryan lost control of the wheel the day she was born.

  “Pilots can fly like birds,” June says.

  “You want to be a bird, you little monkey?” I tickle her, driving with my left arm.

  She giggles and laughs, reminding me of the four-year-old Ashlyn. “And I want tattoos like yours, mommy.”

  I’m not sure what to say. My left arm is covered in tattoos now. A feeble attempt to overwrite my past and hide the needle marks. It’s better not to encourage her, not at this age. On the bright side, my tattoos are meaningful. I had an artist write the names of the two hundred and thirty passengers on my left arm. In memorial and respect for the deceased on the plane.

  I wish I could remember the names of the girls from my childhood, but I seem to have blocked this part of my memory into a grave in my skull.

  I stop the car. We’ve arrived.

  In the cemetery we pay our respects to aunt Ashlyn Ward. I’ve buried her ashes inside an urn that I had placed in a coffin. Ashlyn deserves to be remembered, not just as my pen name author, but as a human being. It’s also nice to see June pray on her knees with laced hands. She seems so serious about it.

  I wait as she tells Aunt Ashlyn about her flying plans and tattoos. June claims she can hear Ashlyn talk back to her. I never comment or ask about the things Ashlyn tells her. I’d like to think it’s true, not that my daughter has an imaginary friend who is her aunt. Besides, if I know what Ashlyn tells June, I think I will break down in tears.

  119

  Back at home, we wave at our Argentinian neighbor, Adriana. Pregnant with her fourth girl, she never ceases to get enough of children. I met her years ago in a clinic. We both battled addiction.

  In the evening, June a
nd I are preparing dinner in the kitchen. I live in a big upscale house in Manhattan. Not that I like it, but when you have a child, you want the best for them. More than the best. Besides, I imagine there is little chance she’d face the shit I have where we live now.

  I’ve never tried to marry and don’t think I will. I’m not comfortable with having sex, still. I experienced it a few times with Ryan. It was different from what I’ve experienced in the past, but I will always remember Ryan’s gentle thrusts. He was so shy.

  We don’t go visit Ryan’s grave in a cemetery. He’d always told me he’d prefer being remembered inside the house, so he is basically living with us. Right now June is preparing his plate for dinner. It’s a bit strange but she likes it.

  “Who’s coming for dinner?” She asks.

  “A lot of friends,” I say.

  “Do I know them?”

  “Some.”

  The doorbell rings. She runs toward it and pulls the heavy door with all her might.

  “Uncle Jack!” She squeals.

  Jack and Irene enter the house, but without their three-year-old. They’d probably left her with Irene’s grandmother. They’d taken some time to have children, since Irene wanted to save more lives before she became a mother.

  “Did you kiss your mom on the cheek today?” Irene asks June. “She’s been through a lot to bring you into this world.”

  I smile and hug Jack, then squeeze Irene in my arms.

  “Irene is the one who helped bring you into this world, little princess.” I tell June.

  “Again?” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard this story a thousand times. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”